


Happy Birthday

by Happy9450



Category: The Newsroom (US TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-03
Updated: 2015-10-03
Packaged: 2018-04-24 13:07:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4920793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Happy9450/pseuds/Happy9450
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A celebration story for Lilacmermaid's September Challenge.  Hope you like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lilacmermaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilacmermaid/gifts).



Will woke early. The first light of dawn cast weak shadows throughout the bedroom, the end of the bed, bureaus, chair and love seat barely illuminated. He could see the picture frames scattered about but was unable to make out their contents. But then, he didn't need to see them to know exactly what each one was. Snapshots from MacKenzie’s childhood, and his, pictures of nieces and nephews, both blood and “chosen” relatives, and finally, moments from the lives of the three McAvoy children his wife had brought into the world.

He ran a hand down and up the arm, back and thigh of the naked woman who was asleep next to him. In twenty-three years of doing so, Will had learned just how to touch her so that she would not be disturbed. But this time, on his third pass, she murmured in her sleep and rolled against him, pinning him to the bed with her left leg. He began to feel aroused, not the jump-to-the-ready arousal of their younger days, but a slow, sweet sensation in which he first felt himself grow longer and then gradually harden. Oh, yeah, she still had it goin’ on. 

He hoped she would like the song, and enjoy the party. Sixty years. In a way, it seemed impossible that today was MacKenzie’s sixtieth birthday. Although not vain, he knew that Mac was bothered by the crows feet around her eyes, the little frown lines that had developed at the corners of her mouth, and the way her chin line and throat had changed. But, God, he thought, she was beautiful. She had kept herself fit, and her body felt the same as it always had under his touch. True, when he looked at her closely, he could see the extra roundness in her torso that said she had borne three heathy babies, and the slight sagging here and there, where despite exercise, sixty years of gravity would not be denied. But none of it made him desire her any less.

He stroked the leg that rested across his torso, and thought of everything this body had given him . . . hours of ecstasy, no, days, weeks, surely, maybe months? He tried to compute the number of minutes in a month in his head and got approximately 43,200. If his average erection lasted 30 minutes, that would be like 60 erections a year during their marriage, less than that when he counted their time together in Washington and all of the ones he'd gotten from her voice in his ear, and the nights he'd lain awake missing her during the three years they had been apart. Yes, he figured, she'd given him at least a month of erections. He smiled in anticipation of telling her about his little math project when she woke up. 

More than sex, though, she'd given him comfort and security. And people. She'd filled his life with people, many of whom were asleep now in this house, and more of whom would be at the hotel for the party tonight. There was his daughter, Charlotte, visiting from her new job at the Tate in London, with James, her new, and it appeared to Will’s seasoned, paternal eye, serious boyfriend. His boys, Duncan, awol from law school in Chicago, and Daniel, missing a game to be here at the risk of being benched by his less than forgiving college baseball coach. (“He won't bench me. I'm too good.” “Now, where have I heard that one before?” his mother had asked, kissing her tall blond son in greeting.) 

They'd never had a second girl, he mused, never given Charlie the little sister she'd craved, although, he remembered that Mac had fleetingly considered a fourth pregnancy before coming to her senses. A full blown grin broke out on his face as he thought of another of Mac’s birthdays, years before, that they'd celebrated at Sloan’s and Don’s apartment. Charlie had been five, Dunk less than two, and Mac and Sloan had both been pregnant. One of Mac’s presents had been the announcement that Sloan’s baby was a girl and was going to be named, MacKenzie. 

“You can be ‘Big Mac’ and she can be ‘Little Mac,’” Sloan had gushed. 

“Not a chance,” Mac had retorted.

“Why not?” Sloan had asked feigning more hurt than she felt. “It’ll be cute. We call Charlotte, ‘Big Charlie’ now that Little Charlie is here.”

“Yeah, McMac, what's wrong with that?” Leona had chimed in from the corner of the room where she was swaying back and forth with six-week-old Charles Skinner Lansing in her arms. 

“Big Charlie is not the name of a disgusting fast-food sandwich,” MacKenzie had replied archly.

“Burger,” Don had corrected her.

“Is it meat between two pieces of leavened baked goods?” she'd asked like an attorney on cross-examination. When Don nodded in defeat, she'd finished, “then it's a sandwich.”

Later that evening, Will had walked into the kitchen, after nearly being run over by Charlotte’s exit, to find Sloan grinning as she wiped tears from her eyes, and MacKenzie giggling, gagging, coughing and blowing her nose. 

“Well, if it's not the very penis in question,” Sloan had greeted him. 

“What’s going in here?”

“Your daughter just informed your wife that she knows all about how babies are made. Apparently, Tessa told her this Summer. All Mac has to do is . . . and I quote, ‘let this one come out, and then borrow Daddy’s penis again and make a girl baby.’ Your wife had the misfortune to have just taken a large gulp of herbal tea which exploded out of her nose when Charlie got to the part about borrowing your penis. It was pretty awesome. Sorry you missed it, Bro.”

“Well, you know, Mac,” he'd said, walking over to take his wife in his arms, “you’re free to borrow my penis any old time. You hardly have to ask.” He'd gotten an elbow in the ribs.

The question, “What are you smiling about?” in MacKenzie’s voice, startled Will back to reality.

“Thinking about you,” he responded dreamily. 

“Well, I'm right here.”

“Yes. Yes, you are. To my eternal good fortune.” He kissed her. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you.” She sighed. “Well, I suppose it's better than the alternative.”

“Mac . . . come on. That's not something the most attractive woman I've ever seen in real life should be saying.” He kissed her again, more deeply this time, heard her sigh, and felt her give herself up to the kiss. “The kids are still asleep,” Will whispered. “Want your first present of the day?”

 

Mac knew about the party, of course, but the guest list had been a closely guarded secret between Will and Sloan. Will had spent hours assembling the list to include family and friends from various times in her life. It was amazing, he found making contact with people who hadn't seen her for years, or in some cases, decades, how each had a story about Mac touching theirs lives, or going beyond what was expected to come through for them in some way.

Walking into the Terrace Room Foyer, MacKenzie gasped at the number of people who were standing around, drinking and talking. She squealed when she spotted her mother, the Dowager Countess of Ailesbury, standing with the two women who had become her surrogate mothers, Leona Lansing and Nancy Skinner, all of them well into their nineties, but still vital and engaging. Her brothers and sisters and their families crowded around her, hugging and kissing and wishing her a happy birthday, as did the contingent from Will’s side of the family. There were friends she had made at her children’s schools, and fellow journalists like Diane Sawyer and Brian Jennings. Her AWM family, including Reese Lansing and his wife, Harriet McAvoy, who saw her most days, held back, Will noticed, and let the out-of-towners and others have their time with her. 

He watched her stop in her tracks, and her eyes fill with tears when she spotted Jim Harper talking to a group of middle aged men who had been in their Marine unit in Iraq. He'd expected her to run over to them, but instead, she turned to face the spot from which he'd been watching her.

“You did this?”

He smiled at her as she'd smiled at him when he'd asked her the same question on Valentine's Day twenty-five years ago. “Happy Birthday, Mac,” he said softly, and closed the distance between them. She pressed her face against his neck, fit her body to his, and he thought, as he always did, of two puzzle pieces coming together to make a nearly seamless whole. 

When Mac had finished her tour of the guests in the Foyer, Sloan, Jim and Will began moving through the crowd ushering guests into the Terrace Room for dinner. During the meal, there was an “open mike” where people could come up and say a few words. Most just said things like “happy birthday” or “we love you, Mac,” but a few, like Sloan, told elaborate stories, usually about Will and Mac.

“So, this one night,” Sloan began, “about three months after Mac had arrived at ACN, which was shortly after Maggie . . . you all know Maggie Jordan Harper, the powerhouse who keeps our Washington Bureau on its toes . . . started working as Will’s assistant, he'd left the office with instructions that she should do something with information on a page he'd printed from a document on his computer. Maggie had lost the paper and after about an hour looking for it, she realized that she was going to have to try to interrupt Will, who was out on a date . . . “ Sloan paused, and stared at Will disapprovingly, and then muttered, “yeah, well that's another story,” to a smattering of chuckles from those who had lived through his “Bimbo days.” 

“Anyway, rather than accept the embarrassment of doing that,” Sloan continued, “Maggie enlisted Neal's help to get into Will’s computer and reprint the page she needed.” More laughter. “As they tried everything they could think of that could be Will’s password, they got a larger and larger group of people to make suggestions. There were about a dozen of us in Will’s office, trying all kinds of things, his birthdate, scrambles of his telephone numbers, the names of his brother and sisters, when Gary Cooper came in. 

“Always the coolest guy around, Coop listened to what we were up to, and then said in a voice that clearly conveyed the concept that we were all thicker than a box of planks, ‘it's MacKenzie.’ You could have heard a pin drop. ‘Will’s password,’ Coop repeated, ‘it's gonna be MacKenzie.’ Neal, who was so frustrated by then, he looked like he might cry, demanded to know if Will had told Gary the password. ‘Nah,’ Coop replied, ‘but what else, or who else does the guy ever think about.’” More laughter spread across the ballroom. “So, Neal did as Coop instructed, and the desktop loaded right up.

“So, Bro, now you know. Thanks to your all too obvious love for your wife, for the last twenty-five years, everyone at News Night has had complete access to your desk computer, your laptop, and your smartphone.” The room erupted in laughter and applause. 

After the toasts, roasts and declarations of love and affection were finished and the dinner plates had been cleared, Will and various members of the audience began slipping away to assemble in one corner of the room, beside a baby grand piano and a double bass. Will felt uncharacteristically nervous. He'd written the song he was about to sing over the last few months, inspired by a conversation he had with his wife shortly before the Holidays. He'd come up behind her in the bathroom as she'd been looking into the mirror, and asked her what she wanted for Christmas, and she'd replied, “for Ponce de Leon to have been successful in his quest.” They'd had a conversation about the advantages that men have over women in the aging process, and he'd been inspired to write a song to tell her that she was still as attractive to him as ever. But now that he was about to sing it to her in front of several hundred people, he wondered if this was a mistake, something that would only make her feel more self-conscious about turning sixty. Oh, well, too late to back out now, he thought, as Jim put his guitar strap over his head and handed Will his guitar from its stand. 

Charlie Skinner's grandson, Ned, took up his place at the piano, and Beau picked up his bass. Will looked around to be sure everyone was ready, leaned into the microphone, and spoke as he began the song’s opening chords, “this is a song that I wrote for my beautiful wife, MacKenzie.” He started a bit tentatively.

“Reflecting on your reflections, you are  
Taken aback.  
Ya agonize ‘bout your own demise  
How your armor’s got some cracks.  
What seemed to be so right  
Is now suddenly wrong.  
All you want for Christmas  
Is Ponce de Leon.

“I hate break it to you baby,  
You still got it goin’ on.”

At the name, Ponce de Leon, he saw her eyes crinkle the way he loved a second before he heard her hearty laugh, as she shook her head fondly at him. Emboldened, he began to play with a bit more force and gusto. As planned, the other musicians joined him as he completed the between stanzas guitar riff.

“I said, ‘hey, you’re lookin’ fine, mama.  
You said, ‘papa, shut your mouth.  
Everything you think you see is on that train headin’ south.'"

Now other voices he could recognize, Leona, Nancy, Margaret and Sloan, her sisters and his, joined Mac’s in laughter.

“You say your ship has sailed,  
You say what’s good has gone.  
Now you’re just tha’ tune from some old forgotten song.

“I hate break it to you baby,  
You still got it goin’ on.”

A few people clapped and whistled their agreement.

“Every start has got a finish,  
Each beginning’s got an end,  
And there comes a day when even Dorian Grey  
Has gotta go around the bend.  
You feel like that old ugly ducklin’  
Swimmin’ next to the swan.  
You feel a little like a Ripple  
Next to Dom Perignon.

“If you could go back in time,  
If you could turn back your clock,  
Put a little yin back in your yang,  
A little tic back in your toc.  
Passin’ time’s just passin’ away  
Tomorrow’s just the prologue for yesterday.

“I hate break it to you baby,  
You still got it goin’ on.”

There was a long musical interlude during which he introduced Ned, Beau and Jim, and they each played a short solo. Then Will played his, and began to sing again.

“Every start has got a finish,  
Each beginning’s got an end,  
And there comes a day when even Dorian Grey  
Has gotta go around the bend.  
You feel like that old ugly ducklin’  
Swimmin’ next to the swan.  
You feel a little like a Ripple  
Next to Dom Perignon.

“At the wreckage of your ruins,  
You’ve been administered Last Rites,  
You mourn the depth of your undoing  
Like a fighter too tired to fight.

“But Picasso could have sketched you,  
You could have modeled for Cezanne.  
You’re still my damsel in distress  
In the palm of King Kong.

“I hate to break it to ya, baby,  
I hate to break it to ya, baby,  
I hate to break it to ya, baby,  
You still got it goin’ on.”

As applause thundered around the room, and the musicians took their bows, MacKenzie Morgan McHale McAvoy, still stunning despite the rivers of grey running through her chestnut hair, stood and walked toward her husband. She wrapped her arms around his neck and rewarded him with a deep and passionate kiss. Then, releasing his lips, she whispered in his ear, “bravo, Billy. But how are you going to top this when I'm eighty?”

**Author's Note:**

> The song "Still Got it Goin' On" is from Jeff Daniel's album, "Days Like These."


End file.
